


Forever Marveling

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Romance, thigh-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Thorin does not even realize he’s grown hard against the fever-heat of Bilbo’s thighs until it is too late to will it to nothingness. His hips are already moving beyond his will, rutting against the smooth warmth, his lungs full of woodsmoke and salt as he inhales deeply from the back of Bilbo’s neck, crushing him close. Some months ago he would have rolled away, aghast at himself for becoming lewd and needy when Bilbo was not conscious enough to do anything about it. But now, he lets out a low grumble, indulging himself as he licks at the perspiration at the top-knob of Bilbo’s spine, stomach dropping because he’sallowedthis. He knows it.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 39
Kudos: 287





	Forever Marveling

**Author's Note:**

> I have zero excuses for why this happened. I wish I wasn't writing it, I feel like Bagginshield in 2020 is a weird look, but 2020 in general is a weird look, so here I am! I love them so much! I have never cared so deeply for a white dude, fuck you Thorin Oakenshield! 
> 
> Ive been meaning to write a somno fic forever, I thought it would be a different pairing but, well, we can't all have nice things. So here. This has sleep sex but it's pre-negotiated. I somewhat strongly doubt anyone will read this but if they do, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I made you think about Martin Freeman fucking! Im sorry Ive thought about Martin Freeman fucking! I'm truly horrified!!!

The dawn light stretches tender, longing fingers through the slot between Bilbo’s curtains, and Thorin stirs, for he can only sleep in complete darkness. 

He doesn’t curse the sun as he often does, though, because this time he’s in Bilbo’s bed. Feeling too large for the narrow, lumpy mattress, but _here,_ pressed flush to drowsy heat, the smell of pine and fried oil and baking bread and fresh linens surrounding him like they do in his dreams, but this time—this time they’re real. He rolls over gingerly and crushes Bilbo’s small, sleeping frame in the cage of his ams, burying his nose in unruly copper curls. _Mine,_ he thinks with a stomach-twisting certainty. _Finally and completely mine._

Bilbo groans in his sleep, but he does not wake. So Thorin settles against him, melting like molten forge-gold seeping into stone fissures. It is rare he drifts back under once he’s awoken, but if it happens, it’s here: pressed to Bilbo’s spine, or Bilbo’s chest, or perhaps, with his cheek still resting atop the tender plane of Bilbo’s inner thigh, after they are both too wrung out to move upon finishing late into the night. Close enough to count his breaths, to feel his heartbeat. That’s the only place sleep finds Thorin easily. 

Before Thorin has a chance to nod off again, though, Bilbo is making an affronted sound, shifting restlessly, too warm to the touch. 

Thorin holds him fast, grip tightening, a smile spreading like something reckless against the back of his skull. “I want you here,” he murmurs against Bilbo’s ear, spreading a wide palm across the soft splay of his chest to root him, ground him. He knows Bilbo probably cannot hear him, but he likes the thought of his devotion transcending planes of existence. That his love is such a live, hot, determined, _stubborn_ thing its expressions can find Bilbo even in his dreams. “It’s morning, Master Burglar,” he says, this time to Bilbo’s pulse, where he left a three mark constellation last night with his mouth, like stars to guide himself home by. 

“It is _not,”_ Bilbo mumbles, grabbing one of his many pillows and shoving it over his face to block out the light, buffeting Thorin somewhat in the process. “I’m awake in the morning. And m’not—not yet awake,” he adds in a muffled slur. 

“I see,” Thorin answers, slackening his grip just enough Bilbo has nothing to struggle against, and can fall back asleep if he likes. Thorin coaxes him into it by pressing long, lingering kisses to Bilbo’s shoulder, the curve of his arm. His beard must scrape, but he knows Bilbo finds the threat of pain just as comforting as softness, so he does not pull away.

Bilbo’s skin is all at once pale and rosy; it is _made_ to be bruised, but Thorin would never have been bold enough to actually do such a thing had Bilbo not told him some time ago that he _wanted_ to be marked up, traced out like a map. _It gives me things—_ tokens _to remember you by once you leave for home,_ he’d said, rubbing his fingers over the deep purple dappling Thorin left over his chest like storm clouds. _I like to press on them, make them sting, because frankly, I spend time wondering if I've gone mad, otherwise. It’s hard to believe you’ve truly touched me without proof of it, once you’re back to the mountain. A king instead of my—well. Whatever you are._ And Thorin recalls shaking his head in awe and wonder at that, licking fiercely over the marks before he murmured: _I do not leave for home._ _This, too, is home.You. You are also my home. And I am always a king. Just as I am always your—yours._

Because then—and even _still—_ they do not have a word for what they are doing. What they are to each other. Bilbo is his friend, but more than that he is his _heart_. His beloved, his greatest treasure. He would make him his consort as well, if there was any sort of precedent for that, but there is not, so. They alternate travel when the weather permits. They lie together when they do, and long to lie together when they don’t, and that is that. Thorin wishes it were enough, but at least it is something. At least he gets to leave a ring of suck-marks around Bilbo’s neck, low enough it is covered by the elegant filigree of the Mithril, which he always dresses him in before their time is up, and one must travel back over the Misty Mountains, and to his side of the world. 

He has him _now,_ though, real and solid and plush against his body. He tries not to dwell on the times he doesn't when they are together, so he busies himself instead with inhaling greedily from Bilbo’s hair, feeling him soften and sink heavy in his arms as sleep finds him again. 

Thorin does not even realize he’s grown hard against the fever-heat of Bilbo’s thighs until it is too late to will it to nothingness. His hips are already moving beyond his will, rutting against the smooth warmth, his lungs full of woodsmoke and salt as he inhales deeply from the back of Bilbo’s neck, crushing him close. Some months ago he would have rolled away, aghast at himself for becoming lewd and needy when Bilbo was not conscious enough to do anything about it. But now, he lets out a low grumble, indulging himself as he licks at the perspiration at the top-knob of Bilbo’s spine, stomach dropping because he’s _allowed_ this. He knows it. 

It is another thing they’ve discussed, another thing Bilbo managed to stammer out while blushing, curled against Thorin’s chest and nervously picking at a hole in the sheets. It came up because even on his _most_ enthusiastic days, Bilbo cannot always keep up with Thorin. Not in terms of _desire,_ necessarily, but in terms of endurance. There are simply insurmountable differences between Dwarfs and Hobbits. For example, Bilbo needs _food_ more often. He requires breaks to fuel up, and he often nods off upon coming where Thorin is forever touching, forever marveling. He sleeps more soundly and for longer hours, and Thorin understands that. 

_I don’t mind if you have your fun while I sleep, though,_ Bilbo confessed one night as they smoked, passing the same pipe back and forth, the stem spit-damp in a way that twisted Thorin’s insides up every time he noticed it, because things were still quite new then, and every revelation felt heartbreaking in its wonder. 

_But you are not awake to enjoy it. I’d feel—like I was forcing myself upon you. If I did not know for certain you wanted me,_ Thorin had explained, eyes burning in the newly smoke-thick room. He remembers the way Bilbo’s hands, which had been tangled loosely into the thatch of his chest hair, began to fidget then, ticklish and sweet. 

_The truth of the matter is_ _I always want you,_ he’d admitted. _In fact—well. I rather like the idea of you. Sort of. I guess, just, just_ doing _what you please with me, like I were a plaything,_ he admitted then, hiding his face in the curtain of Thorin’s hair, face palpably hot. Thorin froze, insides lighting up with a familiar, twisting fire. 

_You’re telling me—I have permission. To take you while you sleep?_ he’d asked. And that had made Bilbo squirm against him, hands scrambling for purchase against his chest.

 _Yes,_ yes, _don’t make me say it again, I’m mortified enough as is. In fact, you—you’ll have to take me while I’m awake, now, because just talking about this gotten me all. Well, you can see for yourself._

And after that, it becomes a habit of sorts. Thorin claiming what he wants, when he wants it. So, he does not roll away, or take himself in hand, or curse the manner in which he’s forever famished and no amount of Bilbo’s flesh will ever sate him. He just groans against his skin, and reaches for his thighs, arranging them both so he can easily push into the infernal heat between them. 

There are certain positions, certain _acts_ which are not practical to do with a sleeping person. Thorin has discovered the most effective means of achieving what he wants—achieving what _Bilbo_ wants—is to fuck between his thighs, where he’s soft and plump and usually faintly sweat-damp as he dreams. It’s _tight,_ here, tight and hot, and Thorin’s cock is big enough he can reach around and touch the tip where it nudges out under Bilbo’s sac, smearing precum around, down into Bilbo’s red-gold curls, making him wet while he sleeps.

Sometimes, Thorin can rub himself to finish here, fucking the hot-sweet pressure until he spills on the sheets, gasping against the curve of Bilbo’s spine. Bilbo will occasionally rock against him with subconscious enthusiasm, meeting his thrusts halfway, creating friction. Or, he will lie still and snore quietly, truly unawares until he wakes up sticky, spit on his shoulders, come on his thighs, flustered and delighted even if he pretends to be scandalized because much of Bilbo’s life is spend feigning such things as scandal. 

But other times, Thorin is too slow, or too rough, or too loud, and Bilbo awakens before he’s baptized. It is often in incremental twitches: a gasp or a groan, then a rhythmic shifting of his hips as he grinds on the sheets, only partially aware of _why_ he’s hard, _why_ he’s sweat-slick.

And Thorin…he loves him like this. Loves the way he seeks heat and touch so wantonly, loves the way this version of Bilbo’s hips roll more obscenely, more loosely than they do when he’s fully awake. Bilbo is so often caught up in layers of self-awareness and embarrassment and propriety that he holds back, but not like this. Not in the throes of sleep. Not when Thorin already has him halfway there, palm-warmed and spit-softened and throbbing from being touched while he’s too drowsy to be self conscious about it. 

So, as Thorin thrusts between Bilbo’s thighs, he does not worry about waking him. He touches boldly, broad strokes over his chest, fingers carding through the tangles of his hair. Hips snapping enough to rock the small frame of his body, breath coming out in snagged, hungry gasps. 

After several feverish minutes Bilbo rouses somewhat, tilting his head back to suck in a shaky inhalation as he squeezes his legs together minimally, arching his back. “Thorin,” he murmurs, syllables melting together into a honey-gold, sleep sticky mess and _oh,_ Thorin wants him, he _adores him,_ he needs him exactly like this: broken open, half-conscious, panting, _soft-hard._ Too soft and too hard all at once to worry about how he looks. How desperate, how needy.

Thorin withdraws so that he can manhandle Bilbo onto his back, pinning his slow, sleep clumsy arms above his head so they do not interfere. “My love,” he huffs out, lips against his temple. “You’re so beautiful like this. Spread out. All mine,” he growls, reaching across the mattress to fumble for the vial of oil on Bilbo’s bedside table. He coats his hand and takes Bilbo in hand, slicking him up, drunk on the way his eyelashes flutter at the sensation. He’s so much more _responsive_ when he’s not overthinking, his reactions trackable, _obvious,_ exaggerated as he surrenders to pleasure.Thorin’s gaze locks on the way Bilbo’s cock disappears in his fist, the way his spine curls, hips lifting up off the sheets as he writhes.

He’s waking up in full, now, batting his lashes, screwing up his face. “Thorin,” he says again, clearer, firmer this time. “You— _ah—_ fuck.” 

The words twist deep and sudden in his gut. “Yes,” Thorin say simply, rubbing his cock into the outside plane of Bilbo’s thigh. He touches him, grip slick and messy with oil, and then he buries his face briefly into Bilbo’s neck before he pulls back to kiss him, deep and wet. “Are you close?” 

“Somehow— _ugh,_ yes. _Thorin,”_ he gasps, thrashing more wildly than he ever would if they'd started this awake. Thorin grasps his wrists tighter, bites his lips, huffs into his mouth, holds him down. 

“Please, _please,”_ he murmurs, knowing he sounds wrecked, and not caring. This is what Bilbo does to him, what he turns him into: a king, in ruin, begging and lost _. “_ Come for me. Show me how good it feels.” 

Bilbo finishes soon after the demand, eyes twitching beneath the lids and his head thrown back, hips lifted as he spills in ribbons across his soft, pale stomach. Thorin watches through a tangle of his own hair, and once Bilbo collapses back onto the bed he’s kissing down his chest to lick up the mess, breathless with longing. “Goodness,” Bilbo huffs, reaching down to tangle fingers into the loose curls at the back of Thorin’s head. “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” Thorin asks as he gathers himself. There’s nothing but pure, sea-salty bitterness on his tongue, Bilbo’s lovely squirming softness in his hands, and these are the moments he realizes the truth in hie heart of hearts: that there are some things of such importance they come even before kin, and the crown, and honor. There are some things which are unspeakable. 

“I don’t know. Lay waste to me. Leave me like this,” Bilbo murmurs, gesturing to the wreck of the bed, their sprawled bodies within it. The licked-clean trails on his chest, shining from Thorin’s saliva. “It’s indecent.” 

Thorin laughs, the rumble of it low like thunder crawling over the horizon. He’s still so terribly hard, everything clouded with his hunger as he clambers atop Bilbo, bending him in half at the waist so his legs are draped over his shoulders, thrusting into the oil-slick junction of his thigh and body with abandon. “I’m mad for you, that’s all,” he admits, breath trapped between them, arms bracketing Bilbo’s chest. His hair falls in a dark curtain around their faces and Bilbo’s breath catches audibly, as it often does when Thorin bestows a compliment upon him he falsely believes he does not deserve. It makes Thorin fuck against him more firmly, as if to promise, _yes, yes, you, you silly fool. It has always been you and will always be you and I’d do anything for it. Give up the throne. Give up my life. Give up that home, to be your home._

Bilbo melts under him, spreading his thighs, opening up, letting his head tilt back so Thorin can mouth up the ripple his throat. “I—ah. And I’m mad for you, too, I suppose. I _must_ be, given that I. _Oh._ That I let you have your way with me when I’m— _fuck,_ Thorin,” he gasps then, just as Thorin seizes up against him, spilling between the wild shift of their bodies with a throat-scouring gasp.

He keeps rocking solidly against Bilbo well after he’s finished emptying in pulses, kissing his ever-furrowed brow, his oily hair, the twitchy skin crinkles at the tails of his eyes, the soft bags beneath them. It is a well worn face, like something long treasured, and Thorin adores it. Wants it seared into his memories as he comes so when be brings himself off alone in this own quarters in Erebor weeks later, he can remember it: the way Bilbo touched him, gazed at him. The way sleep made his expression sweet and hazy, his body malleable under the grand terror of Thorin’s want. The way he was _here,_ real, alive, _his._

 _“_ Oh,” he huffs, gritting his teeth, holding himself up long enough Bilbo can squirm out from underneath his weight before he collapses. “ _Amrâlimê.”_

Bilbo stills, pressing close to Thorin, hands spread wide over his racing heart. “Good morning, I suppose,” he says then, reaching to cup the hinge of his jaw and thread searching fingers through his short beard, eyes helplessly sweeping over him like it’s still, somehow, stunned that this is all his. His soil to till, his earth to plant seeds deep within. His, no matter the distance or the impracticality or the frost come winter. “I love you,” Bilbo adds then, as if it’s a revelation, and not the foundation of all they've become. 

Thorin covers his pulse with a rough palm, kissing the corner of his upturned mouth. “Not as much as you love breakfast,” he scolds, thumbing over the pointed tip of Bilbo’s ear. “Come,” he adds then, using the sheets to clean them both, blot their sins dry. “I will make you tea.” 

And the dawn has become morning now, and light will chase them, day to day, until their time runs out and Thorin must return to the mountain, to the throne, to Erebor. But for now, there is nothing to run from, so he lets himself inhale, low and long. He lets his lungs grow tight with the smell of pine and fried oil and baking bread and fresh linens. Of home, and home, and home. 


End file.
